Wyatt hadn't been inside Krantz's room before. Nor, did it appear, was
he going to have the opportunity now. Though he'd been tempted to simply
barge in unannounced, as the doctor had on several occasions while
Wyatt had been sitting with Glitch, Wyatt had decided that he would be
the better man and had knocked briskly on the door. He was unsurprised
when, a minute later, he was still standing outside, ignored. Krantz
didn't strike him as the sort of man who hurried to greet people. Still,
he'd expected something and, after the third knock hadn't
elicited a brusque 'enter' or the even more peremptory and impersonal
'come', he decided Krantz was elsewhere. Probably busy with that
blonde bit of stuff he calls a nurse, trying to impress her with how
comfortable he is in a grand place like this. Wyatt curled his lip
in an unconscious imitation of his father. She was no nurse. Adora
was a nurse. He turned to leave, but before he could step away from the
door, a tiny sound made him hesitate.

clack

An
oddly potent image filled his head; a bird, perched on Krantz's
windowsill, giving the glass a sharp rap with its beak. The same thing
had happened a few days before - the sound had brought Wyatt to his
window, convinced that someone was standing below, throwing pieces of
gravel up at the glass. Instead, there had been a thrush, large and
speckled - deep brown on an almost olive-green - pecking petulantly at
its own reflection. Trick of the light, he'd thought, fascinated -
the same sunslight fooling the thrush into seeing its rival in the
glass was effectively hiding him from view so that he was able to get
within a foot of the bird and admire its markings. Glass on this
side, mirror on that. It could be a hell of a useful thing to the Tin
Men... When Glitch was better, he would suggest it to him.

Now,
however, the bird that winged its way into his imagination wasn't a
thrush, but a crow, trying to get in and finish what its fellows had
started. That's why he says it's so dark; the crows are blotting out
the sun. He smiled sheepishly at his own superstition. You can
take the boy out of the farm... Still, the idea had an eerie
persuasiveness to it. And if the crows were conspiring with anyone in
the palace, Krantz was enough of a creep to stand out as the perfect
ally. Or - how about this? - he was one of the crows himself, kin to
that dream-rendition of Wyatt's father, and he'd locked himself out of
his room and was tapping to be let back in.

Okay - thoughts
like that are a sign you need to get some sleep. Krantz was a
creep, but he was still a doctor. The fact that he'd telexed colleagues
in the City was proof that he was trying to help Glitch. Or that
he's out of his depth, Wyatt thought uncharitably, then frowned.
He'd thought of Adora, and there had been no accompanying twinge of
sadness, and no guilt when he remembered his declaration in the
courtroom.

"I love him," he mouthed to the empty corridor, and
waited for something - an echo of reproach - to come back. Nothing
stirred the quiet air. Was it a sign that those accounts were finally
settled? Of course, Adora hadn't really appeared to him to give
him her blessing. That would be one miracle too far. If Raw truly wasn't
responsible for what he had seen, then his own mind had made her
appear... but that was okay too; it was his own conscience - his own
heart - that had been waiting for past and present to be reconciled. I
guess the help I needed really was only a crow's-call away.

After
a furtive glance along the corridor confirmed that he was alone, he put
his ear to the door. There it was again; just on the cusp of hearing,
something inside the room let out a short sequence of staccato raps.
Then, something new - a soft, shrill note, half-way between a buzz and a
whine. Wyatt listened, not even breathing, then smiled as he finally
made sense of the sounds.

Personal telex... well, aren't we
fancy? He could see the need for visitors to the palace - a doctor
especially - to stay in touch with the City, but the palace had its own
telex, didn't it? He'd seen the mast, high up on a domed roof, had
mistaken it for a flagpole at first, in fact. I guess you can't have
confidential medical stuff lying around on a public telex. Which was
a shame, because the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to
see what was being said. It was a foregone conclusion that Krantz would
share only the bare bones of any information he had, and that with great
reluctance. Eventually things would filter down from the queen through
DG, but Wyatt wasn't sure he wanted to wait that long. He checked once
more that the corridor was clear and turned the handle.

Locked.
He snorted. Why had he expected it to open? Glitch's room was
never locked, but that was because the lock had been removed. He'd
questioned DG about it, and she'd given him one of those melancholy
smiles she'd been carrying around with her for the last week.

First
day here, he managed to lock himself in his room and lose his key.
Mister Rawlins has the master keys, and we - Az and I - could always use
magic, but it was bound to happen again, and he just looked so helpless
and embarrassed. Mother had the lock removed and a blank plate put in
to cover the hole.

Wyatt could understand the reasoning
behind it, but he'd felt just a flicker of indignation on Glitch's
behalf. Just another example of everyone but Glitch deciding what's
best for him. Like dragging him half-way across the OZ, leaving part
of himself at the Sunseeder, because Her Majesty wanted him to be
around at her birthday festivities. Did anyone ask Glitch what he
wanted? He quelled the irritation before it could flare up into
anything more. It wasn't a good time to let anger do his thinking for
him. Instead, he assessed the door, dropping to one knee to peer at the
keyhole. For all its decorative embellishments, the lock itself looked
fairly plain and straightforward.

You aren't seriously
considering what I think you are, are you?

"No harm in
standing outside someone's room, is there?" No, there wasn't. And there
wasn't any harm in investigating the ornate lamp on a semi-circular
table near the door, either, although Wyatt imagined the queen might
have something to say about him removing one of the long crystals
depending from the stand so that he could prise out the wire ring
holding it in place. You said it yourself, Your Majesty. I'm not a
Tin Man any more. Maybe my sense of justice has outlived my ties to the
letter of the law. With a little work, he unfolded part of the wire
until he had a sturdy length of metal with a stubby hook at one end and a
misshapen loop at the other. A cursory search of his pockets produced a
small pocket-knife with a bone handle. Improvised lock picks? Why
not? It's all part of the Boy Scout code, folks.

No time to
waste. He didn't fancy explaining to some sceptical maid what he was
doing kneeling outside another guest's bedroom. With the makeshift pick
in his right hand, he explored the inside of the lock, cautiously
testing the resistance of the pins inside. If the wire bent now, he was
sunk. Fate - or perhaps Glitch's Munchkin gods - were smiling on him.
The wire held, and the pins yielded easily. Now Wyatt slipped the thin
knife blade into the lock, feeling his way along the bottom of the
keyhole, and twisted it gently as he coaxed the pins upwards with the
end of his pick.

A minute passed and Wyatt, feeling clumsy and
frustrated, was just about to pull the pick free and admit defeat when
the lock made a faint metallic 'snick', and the knife twisted a
fraction. Almost... He held the blade steady, resisting the
impulse to wrench at it, seeking blindly with the pick to find that
last, elusive pin. All at once, it slid into alignment and the mechanism
rocked smoothly over, the latch springing back with a solid clunk that
made Wyatt wince. In the silence of the corridor, the noise had seemed
loud enough to bring the whole palace running. He considered taking a
moment to reattach the crystal to the lamp, but decided against it.
There might be other locks to get through.

Now you're thinking
like a crook instead of a Tin Man.

Wyatt grinned, pushing
the door open. That had sounded like DG. Princess, every Tin Man
worth his salt knows how to think like a crook.

He paid only
the barest attention to Krantz's room. There was no time for
sightseeing - the doctor might return at any moment, and being found in
his room was a sure way to get himself thrown out of the palace, or
worse. Wyatt closed the door behind him and listened. The sound of the
telex was louder, now, but still muffled, and he turned slowly, trying
to get a bearing on it. A second later, the machine fell silent. Don't
play coy with me now.

The desk, which had seemed the most
obvious location for the telex, was empty aside from a few medical
journals with the school of science crest embossed into their covers.
Not surprising - the majority of Krantz's medical equipment was
cluttering up Glitch's little parlour. The device wasn't able to hide
for long, though; Wyatt searched along the walls until he found a
socket, brass-framed and decorative, and traced the wires that led from
it to...

"A closet?"

He tried to picture Krantz as the
sort of considerate guy that would shut a noisy piece of equipment away
so as not to disturb his neighbours, but the image just wouldn't sit
right in his head. But he might stash it out of sight so that
some curious maid couldn't glance at the print-off as it scrolled its
way into the output bin. Wyatt opened the door with his other hand
outstretched, ready to steady the device if it had shifted as it
chattered away to itself in the dark of the closet. Now he cares
about confidentiality? Glitch's privacy and dignity haven't exactly been
high on his agenda up until now. He jumped back as whiteness
spilled out of the partially-open door, then stooped to gather up the
loosely folded paper, scanning the blocky text for telling medical
jargon.

It was hard to make much out at first. The messages were
choppy little assemblies of truncated words, jammed together between
lines of telex code and abbreviated so that they read like a man trying
to speak without moving his lips. Skip to the end. That's where the
important stuff should be. He pulled the print-off through his
fingers, rolling it as he went, and found the most recent message.

******MESSAGE INCOMING CC180307+SS+T11******

+++WRU+++FIN+000+T06

******CONNECTION
ESTABLISHED 20:44 19.08.07******

+++KTZ: LST OFR 500. YR MOVE.
WON'T B PUSHD HIGHR. SLK

******END******

What?

He
read it again. 'LST'... Lost? Last? Last. Last offer
five-hundred. Five-hundred crowns? The next message was equally cryptic:

******MESSAGE INCOMING CC180307+SS+T11******

+++WRU+++FIN+000+T06

******CONNECTION
ESTABLISHED 20:38 19.08.07******

+++KTZ: WILL GO 450. HAD BEST B
WORTH OUTLAY. WSL

******END******

SLK and
WSL. Neither of whom sounded particularly cordial, and both of whom were
offering Krantz a substantial amount of money for something. He read on
with growing unease.

Krantz had sent the message shortly after storming out of
Glitch's room. Wyatt read it again. A chill crept up his spine, and the
back of his throat filled with cold bile. Best bids, please. In
spite of his supposed outrage, Krantz had been sufficiently composed to
come down to his room and send a telex. What are they bidding on?
He began to unroll the sheet, skimming the messages.

SLK and
WSL had both made several offers in the past few days. Wyatt barely read
them - his eyes kept jumping to the messages headedOUTPUT FIN+000+T06.

SLK: RGRT DISSCTN WLD B AT DSCRTN OF HRH.
KTZ. After a few entries, the abbreviations no longer
registered. Slick and Weasel, as Wyatt had started to think of them,
peppered their rising offers with questions - had this test been done?
Had that? There had been a fourth voice in the dialogue - CHG - but he
had fallen by the wayside at 'three hundred', even after Krantz's brisk
exhortation:Be adventurous - this could be your
crowning work, your ticket to Seniority.Before that, the
communications had come thick and fast, all three respondents virtually
stepping on one another's heels to send back their offers, if the
time-stamps were anything to go by.

The paper slid through his
fingers, stopped.

Doesn't matter. If you
keep it alive, you're a miracle-worker. If not, you look sad and write
up the case for your Application for Seniority

Slid
onwards. Stopped.

Gentlemen: I have an
interesting proposal. Exclusive access to a unique case. For the right
price.

He stared down at the paper, momentarily paralysed
by a rising tide of cold fury. Is now a good time to let anger do my
thinking for me? Dropping the telex as if it was diseased, he
slammed out of the room and collided almost immediately with a footman
who recoiled at his murderous expression.

"Krantz - where is he?"
When the man didn't reply at once, Wyatt grabbed him by the shoulders
and shook him. "Doctor Krantz. Tall guy. Red hair. No chin. Limited life
expectancy. This is his room."

"Doctor Krantz, sir? I-I think
he's in the library. But he isn't expecting to be..."

Found
out. Wyatt released his grip and strode towards the staircase.

"...disturbed,"
the footman finished weakly, to the tune of Wyatt's departing
footsteps.

***

Voices echoed dimly through the archway.
Wyatt couldn't make out any words, but he recognised Krantz's educated
tones immediately and set off in that direction. This was the first time
he'd been into the library, any library, come to think of it,
save for the small, musty room back at the old Tin Man headquarters,
where the slab-like books of police procedure and the Outer Zone's
convoluted system of law were kept. Those books had been, appropriately,
uniform - green buckram bindings and silver block-letter titles, like a
row of Tin Men on parade. The contents of the palace library were a
world apart, reminding Wyatt more of the denizens of the Realm of the
Unwanted, the fabulous nestling cheek-by-jowl with the grotesque. Rather
than a single echoing hall, the library was housed in a network of
interconnecting chambers, shelf-lined walls looking in on marble-topped
tables with elaborately entwined wooden stems. Wyatt glanced at them as
he passed - a faded block of crumbling paper announcing itself as
'Byinge an Gaderinge of thee Roial Bokes of the Roialme of Oz', a single
child-sized shoe made of interlocking silver scales, a dented hand-axe
nestled on a bed of straw. Well, one man's trash, I suppose...

He
paused. Listened. Edged a few steps closer. The voices were much
clearer here, the maze-like library bouncing the sound from room to room
until it was absorbed by shelves of insulating paper. There was a
glassy clink and then the sound of flowing liquid.

"...make any
difference. The Queen's warned him off, and if he makes any more trouble
he'll be out on his ear. Just relax, Felix. Everything's under
control."

"But you said he was a Tin Man. One of the old ones -
you know what they were like. You can't bribe 'em and they don't give up
- just keep chipping away until th-"

"I said relax. And
he was a Tin Man; that's what the Queen said. Not any more. In a
day, two at the outside, I'll have my esteemed colleague on his way to
the palace, and then it's not our problem any more. We'll just fade away
into the background. What can he say? He didn't like the way I talked
to it?"

Wyatt's teeth gritted painfully together.

"He
does seem pretty protective of the guy. I heard they knew each other
during the war."

"Sentimentality, you see? They're not people,
not afterwards. They're just lobotomised, half-bright animals that still
remember a few tricks."

How about I teach you to play dead?
Wyatt, temples throbbing in time with his pulse, crossed an expanse of
blue carpet, shoes sinking silently into the thick pile, and halted in
the shadow of a bookcase. From his place of concealment, he could see
Krantz - or part of the man, at least. Several large, comfortably-padded
armchairs were arranged around a low table, and the doctor was lounging
in one of these, a glass in his hand, the wing of the chair hiding his
face. Another chair was oozing a thin trickle of smoke - Krantz's stocky
assistant wasn't visible, but Wyatt recognised his voice.

"You
really think they're gonna shell out hundreds of platinums for a
referral? I know they're good for the money, but if they wanted to study
a headcase they could go to the gaol, or the asylum - there's got to be
scores of them in there. What's so different about this one?"

Krantz
sighed, his voice laden with long-suffering patience. "You see, this
is why you're going to spend your life as a pharmacist's gofer and I'm
going to be rich. Sellick and Wesley are both one journeyman case away
from becoming Senior Scientists. They don't want some drooling con. Do
you know what they do to make a zipperhead in the first place?"

"Did,"
Felix corrected him. "The Queen's put a stop to all that." Krantz waved
his interruption away, a few inches of honey-coloured liquid sloshing
up the side of his glass.

"What they did, then, was go in
with a nice hot probe and just," he held up his hand and pinched his
thumb and forefinger together, "snuff out the bits they didn't want. Cut
them out piecemeal with a scalpel and throw them away. Leave 'em
half-blind, half-crippled. Burn out a few extra neurons here and there
and they're completely harmless. What good is that to anyone? That's not
even a footnote in the Bulletin of Medical Sciences.
State-sanctioned headcases are old news. But this is one of hers..."

Wyatt
couldn't listen to any more. Krantz and Felix were sitting a good
twenty feet from the bookcase, but Wyatt crossed it in what felt to him
like three great strides. The doctor only had enough time to get out
"Oh, it's y-", then Wyatt's fist broke his nose with a dull crunch,
tipping Krantz and the chair backwards.

A heavy hand dropped onto
his shoulder and he wheeled around in time to duck as Felix took a
swing at him. He planted his hand square in the middle of the shorter
man's barrel chest and pushed and, as Felix staggered backwards,
toppling the table behind him with a crash of tumbled decanters, Wyatt
snatched his revolver from its holster and took aim.

"Now, I get
the feeling Krantz is the ideas-man of your setup, so I'm gonna help you
out with a little suggestion. Sit your ass back down there and don't
open your mouth unless you want a case of lead poisoning no doctor in
the OZ will be able to fix."

Felix gave him a despising look, but
did as he was told. Now Wyatt rounded on Krantz, who was struggling to
his feet, both hands clamped over his enthusiastically gushing nose.

"You're
gonna want to put some ice on that," Wyatt told him pleasantly, though
the rage was still bubbling beneath his skin, looking for a way out.
Very deliberately, he moved his finger outside the trigger-guard. It
would be all too easy, right now, to squeeze a little too hard. And
you promised DG you wouldn't shoot him.

Of course, that had
been half an hour ago and the world had changed since then.

"This
is assault," Krantz mumbled thickly through his cupped hands. "I'll see
you're locked up for this - you're insane." He sounded like he was
suffering from a bad head cold, and blood flew from his lips in a fine
spray as he spoke.

"I must be. I haven't blown your brains out,"
Wyatt agreed, "...yet. You sick bastard - you were trying to sell Glitch
to your friends in the City. Are any of them even doctors?" Krantz
glared at him, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wadding it up
under his nose. "Well, are they?" Wyatt raised the gun by way of a
prompt, lining it up neatly with Krantz's forehead.

"Yes, they're
doctors," Krantz answered, asperity warring with fear. "You should be
thanking me. Anyone could just be assigned to deal with the
zipperhead. I'm finding doctors who'll pay to work with i-" The
gun twitched. "...him," he corrected himself hastily. "I can't help him,
but they might. Isn't that what you want?"

"Oh?" Wyatt curled
his lip. "'Regret dissection would be at the discretion of Her Royal
Highness'? Sounds like they're really set on helping Ambrose. You
said you understood the value of his life. You weren't lying about
that, were you? Five hundred platinums sound about right, does it?"

The
doctor hesitated, then leaned closer, his voice dropping. "I'll split
it with you. Think about it - there'll be another doctor here in a few
days, whether you expose me or not. Let me go, and you're not only rid
of me, you're better off two hundred and fifty platinums. What do you
say?"

"Here's what I say." Wyatt snarled, and moved his finger
back inside the trigger-guard. "This is a Spade and Marlowe
three-five-seven Magnum. It has an effective range of about eighty
yards, give or take a couple of yards. A young guy like you, I'll bet
you could run that far in about ten seconds." There was a soft, metallic
ratcheting sound as he pulled the hammer back with his thumb. "One...
two... thr-"

He didn't turn around when he heard Felix's chair
turn over. He's just the sidekick. All I need is Krantz, and the
telex.

Which was still in Krantz's room.

Which was
unlocked.

Ah, crap.

Krantz saw the realisation on
his face, and grinned grotesquely through the blood smeared over his
lips and chin. "Forgotten something, have we? Never mind. I'm sure Felix
will tidy away all the loose ends. You should have taken the m-"

The
gunshot filled the library from wall to book-lined wall with flat,
catastrophic noise and the stink of cordite.